


Deployment

by Darkhorse



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Army Character, M/M, Separated Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-16
Updated: 2013-11-16
Packaged: 2018-01-01 18:59:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkhorse/pseuds/Darkhorse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt on the Kink Meme; http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/13024.html?thread=7335904#t7335904</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Start

Today, would, should have been the perfect day, with the perfect ending. But then the letter flopped onto the mat, and everything fell to pieces.

“I asked you for those files, and when I ask them, I expect them...NOW”  
The sargent fled, ducking as though he expected to have something thrown at him. Javert growled and re-settled his eyes to the paper-work, treating the sargent to merely a cold glance when the files slid onto his desk. He never suffered fools gladly and had even less patience today, the subordinate should feel lucky he got away with that much. His pen threatened to dig a hole in the paper, he wrote so savagely.  
“Inspector”  
His gaze shot up, ready with a glare and a sharp tongue to chastise anyone who should interrupt him. The prefects runner stood in the doorway, not quite leaning on the doorway, but raising an eyebrow as Javert bit his tongue to restrain the stream of angry words which had been about to burst forth.  
“Gisquet wishes to see you”

The prefect's office was far larger and far grander than his own, yet for some reason, not as neat. There were errant piles of paper-work on some of the filing cabinets, even though the dark, fine desk was empty. Only the leather writing patch and a smart inkwell occupied that desk, the computer was relegated to a corner. It was so like Gisquet, appearance before practicality. He stood there, the regulation three paces, an old sword length from the desk, and waited.  
At length, such a length he began to think it was deliberate, the prefect looked up from the document he'd carefully been writing all this time  
“Ah, Inspector Javert”  
He bowed slightly, over-formal perhaps but it was his way.  
Gisquet looked directly at him, folding his hands firmly on the slope of the desk. Javert began to get an uneasy sense that he was being scrutinised by his superior, in much the way an accused might be scrutinised in an interview. It was not a very comfortable feeling and he made a mental note to be more discreet with his looks in future. Gisquet didn't even blink, and Javert found his natural inclination to match stare for stare, would in this situation, be very very impolite. Add that to the fact Gisquiet had carefully not given him permission to sit down, and he was most definitely in for an inquisition. Becoming frantic even as his face stayed calm, he ran back through his recent arrests. Had he used too much force on that drunk car thief who'd nearly killed a little girl walking home from school when the car mounted the curb? Entered and searched on a not quite valid warrant?  
“Why are you cropping the Sargents ears this morning, Javert?”  
He blinked, forced to admit, for quite possibly the first time, that his superior had confused him “Sir?”  
“Don't play ignorant. You're barking orders like a war-lord in his castle and not tolerating a second of time. Documents take time to find Javert, no matter how good the filing, they do not just magically appear.”  
He bowed his head in apology.  
The annoyance was plain on Gisquet's face and in his voice “I will not tolerate this behavior, Inspector and I expect an explanation.”  
Javert spoke to the floor-boards “My apologies Sir... I've had a rotten morning that's all.”  
“A rotten morning, when your shift started at 9am?”  
Javert knew he deserved the minor scoff that came with those words, for so long he'd had nothing in his life but his work, doing his shifts and covering others. And now it would be so again. He set his jaw, feeling his throat tighten in a strange way, a hard stone rising up to block his wind-pipe  
“I will restrain my temper from now on Sir.” His voice cracked slightly, but he hoped Gisquet hadn't noticed and lifted his head to receive the nod of dismissal.

The central work area was full to capacity now as he crossed back to his office, but only a few of the officers lifted their heads to look at him. Those curious glances followed his progress, intuitively scanning his face, until the wooden door clicked shut on its latch behind him. It was tempting to slump against it, but he knew that they would see and know he was out of character. This next little while would all be damage limitation regarding his behaviour, he'd obviously got them interested. Gisquet after all, had not been just a reprimand but a request for a reason. A reason he would never give, or if he did they'd never believe. He sat at his desk and set fingers to keyboard, turning away briefly from the pile that needed typing up and studying he clicked on his planner and typed in a command  
 _Erase notes mark= VJ_ ENTER.  
 _15 notes deleted_ came up on the screen and he closed the program.

It was done, no evidence of planned lives existed if a Sargent came prowling. Clean quick, final.  
He hadn't expected it to hurt so much.

The Beaumont case was progressing well, Gisquet noted absently as he picked through the case file copy that lived in his office draw. The young sargent they'd given it to looked as if he had promise to be an inspector, the sharp nose for detail and inquisitive, slightly slanted mind to ask the strange questions which won useful answers rather than the regular ones which were expected. And very thorough on notes and transcripts, all the better for a court case.  
A light tap on his door disturbed his thoughts just as he reached the only un-photocopied sheet in the file, the comments of the overseeing Inspector. A dry smile curled his lips as he identified the hand writing without even looking at the signature, only one Inspector wrote in such a neat but clipped fashion, every word it's proper length and the descriptions just as detailed as they needed to be...Javert. Irony of ironies, everything today seemed to come back to the tall, wolf-like man  
“Sir?”  
One of the younger sergeants stood in the doorway, peering nervously, inward. Gisquet gestured that he could enter, something the boy did with a hesitancy for rank that earned him mental brownie points. Quickly, Gisquet fished his name out  
“Johnson, what is it?”  
“Inspector Javert Sir.”  
Gisquet found himself half out of his chair before his mind caught up with his body, his immediate thoughts flicking to disaster. Even though this was supposed, and that was the best he could get, to be a desk day for his best officer. “What's happened?”  
The boy, nineteen at most, seemed startled “Nothing Sir, but I might know why he's behaving in the way he is.”  
Gisquet settled back down, trying to regain the steady calm he normally felt, and waved his hand for a continuation  
The boy flushed, biting his lip “I'm not sure if I'm supposed to tell anyone, I might be breaking rules.”  
He leant forward, a gentle smile on his face “Tell please.”  
Johnson drew himself up into a stance which Gisquet identified as born off Javert's own reporting position.  
“A cousin of mine is in the Army Sir, when he was home from base last he mentioned their company medical officer had a boyfriend. A policeman apparently and quite serious too. I didn't think aught of it Sir, until today” He shrugged self deprecatingly but Gisquet put his head in his hands, already seeing where they were going with this chase  
“Was he deployed recently?” The blandness in his voice, or was it hopelessness, he wondered later, surprised even him.  
“Three days ago.”  
He found himself recalling Javert's apparently implausible excuse for his behaviour “Javert would have got a letter?”  
“Yes Sir, probably from the medic himself and posted on departure day, only close kin knew before the date.”  
The prefect wondered just how bleak his face seemed to trigger the blanching in Johnson's face as he looked up to him, despair tickling his mind “How long is this deployment going to be?”  
Johnson shrugged, his look helpless “Six months, a year, two years?”  
There was only one way to answer that, and Gisquet reverted to the language of his birth country “Merde!”  
Privately, he wondered if any of them would survive two years of this


	2. Words unsaid

Javert slammed the door of his small house with all the strength he could muster, but the bang did nothing to lessen his bitterness as it sent a shudder through the floorboards. Turning, he felt something under his boot. That letter, which he'd flung to the ground earlier the morning before, was the only thing it would. He looked down. It hadn't turned scarlet like the howlers in the Harry Potter books, or black to mark a mourning letter, but it should have, it should have. He snatched it up from the floor, intending to crush it and lob it in the bin. But he made the mistake of looking down first.

Jean's handwriting grabbed his eyes, and he found it impossible to tell his fingers to do as his coldly enraged mind wished. This was his last link left, quite possibly for eternity. Numb he dropped into one of the kitchen chairs, carefully un-crumpling the piece of paper. The sentences were banal to his eyes, the apologies empty and sour  
 _I couldn't tell you sooner, the orders were to only inform kin_  
The words mocked him and his free hand slipped into his breast pocket. A silver ring lay in his palm when he opened it, the ring he'd planned to give Jean tonight. His fingers clenched now, and in a movement more spasm than throw, launched the ring across the room. It budded against the opposite wall, making a surprisingly loud noise for it's size. Or was that his guilt, his failure, making it ring louder.  
If only he had been bolder with his feelings, rather than shifting about like a child in front of his class, he would have had some time tied unbreakably with the man he loved. As it was they were apart, and all he was left with was shifting memories which could disappear at any moment. No photos, nothing tangible except the damning letter. A Double edged sword.  
'I hold you in my heart and my prayers, until we meet again'  
“I hate you” He threw the paper onto the table, snarling at it “Is that all you can say, that we should think of each other. Thinking and praying won't protect you from bullets, Jean, if one has your name on it. And will I even know if you fall, or will I be told by the newsreader days afterword?” He paced as his voice grew louder “If you cared, you would have told me, so why, you foolish old man, Why?” He kicked out at one of the chairs, knocking it to the floor with a clatter “Why?”  
The kitchen echoed with his yell, and even his own ears throbbed protest. He felt the granite walls inside him begin to break, as if he'd found the exact resonant pitch. The hurt which had pricked him on his shift when he cleared the contacts came back full force and dived, knife like, into his heart, Jean's face flooding in front of his eyes. He loved the man, eccentricities, scruffy beard and all. He loved him and he'd never really told him. Never actually given voice to those three words.


	3. Too close to home

Johnson looked like he'd been hit over the head, his face beyond white as he set the phone in the alcove down and leant on the desk. Something in his expression, perhaps quite how black and hollow his eyes had become, compelled Javert to go over to him.  
“Bad news?”  
The sargent nodded, stiffening his shoulders and jaw in a pathetic but clearly well intended attempt to return to business formality “My cousin’s been hurt, out there...”  
The shuddering of his breathing told javert more than words, the way the sargent couldn't, rather than wouldn't, meet his eyes, how he fought for his composure and dignity.  
“Badly?”  
The composure just formed cracked like glass “Bad enough to come home, They're flying him over and to Birmingham now.” His shoulders trembled and for the first time Javert found himself realising just how young nineteen could be. It was a child who faced him now, a young man frightened and hurting. He'd missed all this growing up, in the care home at thirteen, starting on his own as soon as he finished school. He'd worked hard, his brain to pieces and his fingers stiff to get the grades, but he'd had no childhood, no softness, no room for love, for kindness, for any feeling really, except his refusal of his past and his loyalty to the law. So narrow, so blind, so hard and harsh. A year ago perhaps he would have had no idea how to cope when faced with a young sargent on the edge of a non-work related emotional crumble.  
He set down what he was carrying on the edge of the nearest desk and closed the gap between them, drawing the youngster into a hug. Johnson leant against him, considerately turning his head so his cheek rather than his full face rested on Javert's uniform. Javert waited, prepared to give all the time needed and trying to ignore how out of place this felt. There was no affection between them, and his arms felt like hinged sticks, resting lightly on the other's body. That was all it was, two pieces of wood together, as it should be. He tried to forget how soft and gentle the last embrace he'd proffered had been, tried to forget the person he had held then was Jean.  
After a moment or two, Johnson straightened up and pulled away, looking surprised when Javert kept his hands on his shoulders  
“Take leave”  
A quizzical frown “Inspector?”  
He wasn't in the mood for playing games, not now “Take leave, starting now, and join your family. This is the time when you need to be together, to hold each other up.” He leveled the sargent with a sharp look “Go.”  
Johnson's face paled slightly “I- I can't Sir, it's mid-way through a shift.” His eyes darted to Gisquet's door  
Javert forced his face to soften, aware it was setting into one of his more frightening glares “I'll clear it with the prefect” He tilted his head to the door “Go.”  
“Thank you Sir, I-I won't forget this.” The boy tripped over his tongue as he stepped back, then turned and all but ran out of the office.

Javert watched him go, forcing his face to stay a mask of dispassion. The glow in Johnson's eyes had said more than words ever could, as had the pain that preceded it. Yet there hadn't been surprise at his offer of affection, except from a brief flash. He furrowed his brow, watching the retreating back. He'd told no-one about Jean, not even Gisquet, yet there had been a flicker of something there. He hesitated to call it common ground understanding, and yet in all his experience, it was the only thing that fitted the look. It was the expression shared by two different families who had both had their children go missing, or worse. And now perhaps, by two people left behind. He blinked, aware he'd drifted, and roughly snatched the files from where he'd left them, only for the papers to slip onto the floor. He crouched down and carefully picked them up, the repetitive but important task steadying him. He carried them into the office, knocking the door shut with a practised foot movement and put them safely on the desk, sitting down to study them. He told himself that worrying over Jean wasn't anything useful, while catching criminals was. But, he realised as he bowed his head to fight tears, that didn't stop him from doing it.


	4. One and one makes a pair

“Javert!”  
It was the tone of the other inspector's voice which made him turn around in the corridor. Goodwin dashed up to him, breathing hard despite his lithe frame, to took a moment or two before he was capable of speech. Javert surveyed him, the high colour in his cheeks paleness and ark ring under his eyes. Goodwin's stress markers, all sky high.  
He folded his arms, glancing at the clock. A quarter of an hour before he could go home, go home and not-think think about Jean. He'd thought himself so strong, but fourteen months had told on him. The ache should have dulled with time, shouldn't it? But every little while, just when he thought he'd got a grip, something would happen; a letter would fall through the door slot, brief and empty of information, there would be deaths or injuries reported on the news an he'd spend the next few days on tenter-hooks waiting for identification (and he knew how Gisquet and the others loathed that.), one of their meeting dates would go by. And that wasn't even considering the backlash of the Johnson Incident as he'd taken to thinking of it. Even after weeks of extra shifts, he would still find Jean's face behind his eyelids when he tried to sleep, would dream of him and wake up bitter when he realised that it was only a dream.  
Goodwin straightened up “Sorry to impose, given it's nearly the end of your shift and all, but we need your help with an interview.”  
Javert arched an eyebrow “And what am I capable of that another competent officer is not?”  
“Sam brought in a reckless driver.”  
“And?”  
“He's ex-army, refuses to speak to anyone of 'low rank', constables for example”  
I rank no higher than any other Inspector.”  
“It's agreed that you're better at getting information out of people, and you look authoritative.” Goodwin looked slightly desperate “I know you've only got fifteen minutes before you knock off-  
Javert checked the clock “Twelve”  
“Fine twelve, and this isn't your case, and you've got paper-work, but please Javert, as a favour?”  
He sighed “Have you asked Gisquet?”  
Goodwin nodded “He'll be along in a moment. The trouble maker's in 7”  
Javert sighed, taking a bitter pleasure in dumping his final batch of folders in Goodwin's arms. It was clear on the other's face that he knew he'd won, but Javert wasn't about to let him gloat, striding back down the corridor towards the interview rooms. Had he stayed for a moment more, he might have noticed the grin which was fighting its way onto Goodwin's face, the twinkle replacing exhaustion in the brown eyes.

Anyone could have heard him coming, as he stamped down the stairs, and he didn't care. He had no reason to care, let the army officer, not a squaddie certainly, they were trained to respect, know he was coming, that he had authority here and would exercise it as he wished. A wolf-snarl of a smile found itself on his face. The others were sending Gisquet as extra authority on the remanded, he was after all, the chief of this part of the force, but he had a feeling that Gisquet might actually end up restraining him.

Still, the door with a pale 7 above it came up too quickly for his liking. He sprang the lock and pushed it open with one flat palm, letting it pivot to closed by itself. His eyes took in the camouflage clothes in a flash and he spoke before even the door had slammed closed.  
“You're a disgrace to that uniform, and to all your fellows.” 

\-----------------------------------

“It's a good thing I'm retired then.”  
The soldier, who had had his head resting on his arms, lifted it as he spoke, turning to meet Javert's eyes.  
The world seemed to stop then, Javert certainly didn't recall taking any breaths. But his heart thumped in his ears as he stared at the man in front of him. The man who rose from his seat at the table to stand beside it instead. His eyes took in the Kahki fatigues again, the white armband with a red swiss-fashion cross on it. Medical, his mind supplied without prompting, the sign was nearly universal. Finally, as if they had been avoiding it, his eyes found the face. More lines were etched on it than he remembered, and there was a tiredness in the eyes that not even joy could disguise completely, not to someone like him. But it was the same face.

The video through the one-way glass later showed him standing stock still, paralysed for around thirty seconds, then a mad bound of five strides across the room. Later he could never recall the act of actually moving, just the force of the contact with the other man, the vice-like grip his arms formed around the shorter body within seconds, holding him tight and close.  
Tears pricked his eyes and he blinked them away briefly as he felt that white head stretching up to his shoulder. Dignity, always dignity  
“Thank god” A dry, crackle of his voice, husky. He drew a deep breath, turning his head to bury it where the other man's long mane would normally be, cut and kept short for deployment. It wasn't enough, and the tears came, wracking him in great shudders “Thank god... thank god.”  
A hand was lightly patting him on the back and he could hear a gentle shushing. Still he clung to the other man, irrationality making it that he would disappear if released.

Eventually, though the first hysteria of sobs died away and he relaxed his crushing grip, shifting back so the other man didn't have to., he wasn't sure he could have coped with that. But no, his eyes had not played tricks on him, his nose hadn't played a joke... HE was here. His hands slid onto the epauletted shoulders, resting there as if confirming by touch what all his other senses had so far told him. Then, almost without conscious thought, they moved up to cup the white-stubbled jaw, one on either side, lifting it ever so slightly further up in the same moment as he lowered his own head to bring their lips together.

Very chaste, very gentle, in defiance of the part of him that wanted to kiss the other man until neither of them could breathe. But it was long, it was luxurious, it was happening. That was what mattered, all that mattered.  
He drew back reluctantly, meeting those eyes, damp like his own, which shone love, such deep, unconditional, unlimited love. It made his voice crack, even as he spoke only one word  
“Jean.”

**Author's Note:**

> To all the troops far and near, to your families, and those who won't ever come home. 
> 
> I'm not from a military family, so I apologize if I'm getting things wrong


End file.
